


A Sensible Courtship

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Regency, Regency Pastiche, Regency Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-18
Updated: 2014-11-18
Packaged: 2018-02-26 02:34:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2634788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another one that just came at me out of the blue.</p><p>We rejoice, today, in the right of gays to marry (at least more right than they once had), but for much of history both lesbians and gays married in mixed sex arrangements. There were no other real choices for gays and lesbians who wanted families and a place in social life. If you could do without the family you might remain single, or cling to your birth family for all your life, but otherwise you had to make do with what was allowed. As a result one suspects there were a whole lot of compromise marriages--and one also thinks that in at least some cases the couples involved found a way to create something warm, and loving, and worthwhile in spite of the limits of longing. This sort of grew out of that historical conjecture...and out of a life-long love of good Regency romance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Sensible Courtship

Mother was thrilled. She went on for days on end, chattering to her associates over tea during her Wednesday “At Home” gatherings, and during calls to the women of her circle.

“No title, of course, but such an old and respected family! And the eldest boy, too—a stable man, quite unlike that madcap brother of his, with his larks and his cut-ups and his low companions. The Bowstreet Runners! I ask you, is that any kind of company for a well-bred young man to take up? But Mycroft is an entirely different kettle of fish. My cousin Benton, the Dean at St. Paul’s, says his friend Jerry told him that his friend Marshall said the government itself would be helpless, utterly helpless, without Mycroft Holmes to keep an eye on things. I told Anthea she’s a lucky girl—a very lucky girl!”

Anthea wasn’t so sure. He was fifteen years older than she. But she was thirty, and supposed that when her age and her comparative poverty and her own simple, unvarnished appearance were factored in, her mother was right. She was lucky. Very, very lucky. As lucky as a girl could be who’s engaged to a man she’s not yet met.

They met for the first time a week later, at Almack’s, by arrangement. He was tall and immaculately dressed in pantaloons, and showed a bit more color than was common among Brummel’s set. He’d eschewed their magpie black-and-white for a near-black navy superfine jacket and breeches, with a royal blue weskit embroidered with peacock feathers. His cravat was outstanding, with a peacock green edge that showed in every turn of its folding. It was tied in an entirely unexpected _a la Byron_ , the full, soft loops of the bow and the wild, fly-away tails of the knot hinting at an unexpected streak of romanticism quite outside what she’d been led to expect. He was ginger, and a bit plain, with a beaky nose and a raised mole on his cheek, pink and plain but not exactly unappealing. His mouth was thin-lipped, wide, and expressive, and his blue eyes small and deeply reserved.

She curtsied upon introduction, and he bowed quite properly.

“A pleasure,” she murmured.

“Entirely mine, I assure you,” he replied, then offered to take her out onto the dance floor. “You’ve been approved to waltz, of course,” he said, as though it could be assumed. He was, of course, right: she’d been out for well over ten years, and had been free to waltz for much of that time.

He was skilled—quite skilled. She did not adore dancing, but appreciated the fact that he showed them to good effect without resorting to extravagant gestures or overblown turns and twirls. Neither stepped on the other’s feet.

“May I get you a glass of ratafia?”

“Orgeat lemonade, I think, would be preferable,” she said. “The lemon cuts the sweetness somewhat, and I prefer to keep my head.”

“One could hardly get drunk on Almack’s ratafia,” he said, reproving.

She smiled prettily. “Then let us just say I prefer to drink real brandy to mere ratafia.”

He gave a sudden laugh, clearly not having expected a lady to admit to drinking strong spirits. “A bold preference.”

“I come from the coasts of Sussex,” she said with a small smile. “One is forever torn between loyalty to the nation and loyalty to the local community—and so much of the local community depends on smuggling. So even a lady might find it politic to drink the occasional glass of brandy, or soak her Christmas plum pudding in the same and set it alight.”

He arched a brow. “A defense of smuggling I had not considered. ‘Love thy neighbor as thyself, and buy from him that your plum pudding might shine forth in the darkness.” He bowed before she could reply, and disappeared into the crowd to get her lemonade.

“A very proper gentleman, I believe,” her mother murmured at her elbow. “I’m sure he seems quite smitten.”

Anthea was equally sure he was not—but did congratulate herself on keeping him mildly amused. She was not, perhaps, quite what he’d expected of an ape-leader at Almack’s. “He’ll do,” she said, simply. “Have you heard more of him from your gossips, Mother?”

“Only from Jeremy, the dear. He says he’s one for men’s company, but not given to most of the clubs. He’s founded his own, apparently, where no one may talk and everyone is obliged to ignore the other. An odd sounding club, I do think. How can one exchange gossip or play cards if one can’t talk?”

“One can’t,” Mr. Holmes said, materializing at her elbow. He handed both women a glass, and smiled tightly. “Or at least, gossip is rendered Impossible and gambling substantially less raucous by the rules of the Diogenes.”

“I think it sounds refreshing,” Anthea said, and glanced around the packed rooms of Almack’s. “Think how much more pleasant tonight would be if there were merely music—and otherwise silence!”

Her mother demurred, fretfully. “How peculiar of you, dear. Please, don’t be peculiar.” The subtext—an unspoken “Please don’t be peculiar now, in front of your well-off fiancé”—was clear.

Mr. Holmes smiled again, still formal and tight. “I quite agree with your daughter, though, I’m afraid. But, then, I too am peculiar. Perhaps we shall suit.”

She met his eyes, and saw that he studied her—cool, detached, dispassionate. She made so bold as to study him in return, then said, “Perhaps we shall. Perhaps…perhaps we might go riding tomorrow, in Hyde Park? We could talk, and my groom could ride somewhat behind.”

He nodded, recognizing her plans to obtain them some limited privacy. “As you wish. Have you a mount?”

“I do, though little more than a hired hack. Our stables in the country are modest, and we have no stable of our own in town, so we rely on the livery to provide for us during the season.”

“A sorry compromise. Allow me to mount you, then: I assure you I can do better for you than a hired hack.”

She nodded, and said without either pride or modesty, “I am a passable rider, but no steeplechaser. A well-mannered mount with good city sense would serve.”

“I believe you shall be pleased,” he said.

She was. The mare he brought with him was a cheerful, cobby beast, barely the fourteen hands it took to make her a horse rather than a pony, and her round curves comforted Anthea regarding her own curvy anatomy. The groom Mr. Holmes had brought to play gooseberry was instantly seen to understand his obligation to keep his distance, keeping the two in sight, but not in hearing.

“Very good,” Anthea said, approvingly. “I see you know how things should be done.”

“I’m afraid I’m rather known for it,” Mr. Holmes said. “A solution for every situation.”

“Admirable,” she said, then said, “And regarding marriage? I presume you’ve offered for me because you know how things should be done in marriage, also?”

He was silent for a few moments, pretending to be occupied containing his mount—though she was quite sure it was pretense. His mount was as exquisitely mannered as her own. After a time he said, warily, “I know how things might best be done for my own marriage, Miss Tremont.”

“And how is that, Mr. Holmes?”

He sighed. “I am a private man, and quite honestly not given to romance or sighs or pining. I am more at ease among men than women, and more at ease with my own company than that of men. My…carnal needs…are limited, though I will admit a bit of a passion for good food and drink. I am past the age of calf-love, and was not so very lost to reason even in the days when I was young. I believe in another time, and if born to another family or position, I might well have chosen to be a monastic, and enjoyed the life. I am, however, the eldest of a landed and moneyed family, with obligations to my line and to my nation. I must marry and at least attempt to sire an heir.”

She nodded, and said, with some satisfaction, “Thought so. I’d praise my own cleverness, but it’s fairly obvious. A man of your temperament makes his choices out of reason, not hey-go-mad passion. But—a younger woman might be more likely to produce the desired child. I’m ancient for breeding.”

“If I understand the situation correctly—and I have referred it to a number of medical men, including my brother’s friend, Doctor John Watson—you have a good ten years before it becomes a serious challenge in most instances.”

“Still—a shame to marry only to find I’m barren,” she pointed out. “You’re burdened with me, but fail to gain the intended goal.”

“Then the goal falls upon my brother—who will loathe it and probably evade it—but it will fall from my own shoulders. I am obliged to make an honorable effort. I am not obliged to succeed.”

“There is that,” she smiled. “But what about a prettier girl? I am no fool, Mr. Holmes. I am plain—indeed, I fly all the banners of the woman born to spinsterhood. I am plain, too fond of books and too tiresome in my conversation. I am myself given to privacy and solitude. I have my pencils and watercolors, and my harp. I am not one to long and sigh for babies, though they are well enough: I neither dread nor long for motherhood. You might well find yourself fonder of woman’s company, and more likely to start that family if you chose yourself some spritely young gamine with a fetching face and sparkling eyes to lure you from your silent haunts.”

He looked away, and said, quietly, “Perhaps, but I would doubt it. I have been more known to ache and yearn for an evening in the company of one of my few male friends.”

She pondered, and decided she was grateful she was thirty, and seasoned, rather than sixteen and green as the grass of the park. “Ah,” she said, softly. “Is that the way of it?”

“Yes.” He looked her way. “And you?”

She grinned ruefully, and nodded across the park to two of her mother’s associates being driven past in a barouche. Only then did she say, wryly, “I have been known to long for an evening in the company of one of my few male friends over that of women myself, I’m afraid. But look at it this way: it will make your conjugal challenges simpler. I will not be unwilling if you are not unkind.”

He nodded, never looking away from the path ahead of them. He had blushed, she saw, and the tip of his long nose was quite pink. She smiled, fondly, and said, “I am not a quite proper lady, I’m afraid. I am old enough to know of things a maiden should not know. But, truly, I think you will find it preferable to the miss-ish sighs of a younger girl.”

“I likewise,” he said, and added, “It was in that hope I chose as I did.”

“An older woman of good breeding, modest fortune, and no particular reputation beyond, perhaps, a tendency to be a bit of a bluestocking?”

He nodded. “I have read that is is a truth universally known that a bachelor with a fortune is in need of a wife. It is equally universally recognized that a spinster of both wit and breeding is in need of a husband. It seemed we might answer each other’s needs.”

Anthea considered carefully, for though her father had already agreed to this match, and told her firmly that she, too, agreed, she did not feel obliged to behave accordingly. She could call the match off easily enough: a loud statement of refusal in a public forum would be fairly certain to close it down even if Father and Mr. Holmes wished otherwise. Society had its uses.

She considered what she was being offered, reviewing the expectations and the obligations carefully.

“Would you expect me to stay in town, or down in the country?”

“As you wished, my dear.”

“I daresay I’d like both. Are you in residence year ‘round?”

“More often than not, I’m afraid. I am—useful—to his Majesty’s government. But I do make time for my estate.”

“How far is it?”

“A day’s travel, no more.”

She nodded approvingly. “And no doubt they can contact you much sooner with a fast courier. You would consider pushing for a bit more time in the country, now that you’ll have a family?”

He pondered, then said, with the first true smile she’d seen, “I might like that, yes. I find I miss the days when I watched over Sherlock. He was a complete hellion and a terrible gadabout, but…” his eyes became suddenly tender. “I would quite like children, and quite like a chance to be a father.” Then he looked sharply her way. “And you—if there are no children, would you be willing to come to London and serve as my hostess? I could very much use a hostess on occasion.”

She shrugged. “I can’t promise I’ll be a genius at it—not like the Duchess of Somerset. But I’ve been properly trained, and I can make conversation well enough. And I like the town. Yes—you can count on me, even if there are children. Could I keep pets? Not a menagerie, I assure you, but a dog or a cat, or perhaps both?”

“If you keep them free of vermin,” he said, tart and amused. “I expect both my children and my domestic animals to be free of vermin.”

“Likewise,” she smiled. “By far the more pleasant and appropriate, I do think.”

He laughed. “You’ve wit.”

“I’ve both wit and understanding,” she said. “I may not be in your league, but I’m hardly a goldfish, swimming circles around her bowl and mouthing bubbles.”

He considered her, then said, “No. You are not, are you?”

She laughed and puffed her cheeks and made fish mouths at him.

By the time they had completed their ride she was set in her mind. When he dismounted in front of her house, gesturing the groom back, and offered her a hand down, she allowed him to help—and then turned, and looked up into his face, and smiled. “I was told, Mr. Holmes, that you have offered for my hand.”

“I was told you had accepted,” he replied, cocking his head.

“Yes,” she said, dryly, “I was told I had also, rather to my surprise. But I find, Mr. Holmes, that for once in my life my father was quite right. I do accept—if you are still offering.”

“A gentleman never retracts his offer,” he said with a grin.

“I’d save you the trouble, if you wished. It’s easy for a woman to scotch a marriage if she’s nerve enough.”

“I think I shall spare you the effort, though,” he said, and bent over her gloved hand. “I believe you shall make a very admirable wife, Miss Tremont.”

She nodded, and stood on tiptoe, dropping a gentle kiss on his smooth-shaven cheek. “And you a husband, Mr. Holmes.”

He blushed, and she decided that, while it was a marriage of convenience, and one with a man who would never dream of her, it would do, for he was clever and kind and really very sweet, and he was prepared to honor her as his helpmeet—and what more could a woman in her thirties ask?


End file.
